the painter // george weasley //

26

Starry Night Over the Rhône, Vincent van Gogh, 1888

George woke up later that night to a whole galaxy of stars on the ceiling of their bedroom.

"Olive?" George furrowed his eyebrows at the ceiling.

"Mhmm?" She yawned.

"What are you doing?"

"Have you ever just thought about how big space is?" She asked, flicking her wand at the ceiling causing a few shooting stars to fly across the ceiling and out the window, "It just makes my brain itch sometimes, just thinking about it y'know ..."

"Olive.." George laughed, "Go to sleep.."

"It just goes on forever and ever.."

"Olive.." He chuckled, "You need sleep.."

"That's gemini." She pointed at the ceiling.

"What?" He turned to face her.

"The twins." She smiled, "Pollux and Castor." she paused, a small sigh escaping her mouth. "I like to look at them when I miss Lyall." she sadden smile laid peacefully on her face, "He clearly is the brighter star, always will be." she turned to face him, "He was so bright."

He catches her talking about him sometimes, and when he does, it's a stab in the heart because he scolds himself for never checking up on her more often. He now understands why she gets up in the middle of the night to walk outside and look at the stars. She's always looking at the stars. 

She's always missing Lyall.

George looked back up at the ceiling and stared at the stars. That's what they did for about an hour, until Olive finally was able to go back to sleep. She flicked her wand and the stars vanished.

"Wait.."George said through a breath, "Can we keep them up?"

Olive turned to face George, who was still staring at the ceiling. She noticed his eyes were a bit glossy, so she put the stars back and pulled George closer to her.

"Better?"

"Much." He smiled, "Goodnight."

A 'goodnight' was said through a yawn, and her head nestled against him. By the calmness of her breathing he could tell she was fast asleep.

"G'night, Freddie.." He mumbled as his eyes closed, catching two shooting stars fly over him before they fully closed.

When he woke up the next morning, he looked to his left just make sure that the past 7 months hadn't been all a dream and she was still there. And she was. Her head perfectly squished against her pillow, her hair all over the place and small snores escaping out of her slightly open mouth. A small pool of drool collecting at the corner of her mouth, darkening the pillow. If she saw what she looked like while she slept, she would probably say she needs to sleep with a bag over her head, but to George; she was beautiful in this state.

Every time he wakes up now, he looks over to see if she's still there. Because how in the world was he so lucky to have her, so lucky to have met her.

He'd dated so many people, time and time again. All the same, never what he wanted. The people he ever tried to be with, never felt right. He could tell, because there was no love in the way they said his name. The kisses he had received never radiated warmth or certainty. When he held hands with someone, he knew that this was not what love felt like. This is not what home felt like.